In My Time of Dying
by thewriterinallofus
Summary: Molly Hooper has changed. Of that much, Sherlock is certain. How drastic the change is and the specifics of it remain to be seen. Will Sherlock figure out what's wrong with Molly? Will he be able to help her?


**A/N: I was feeling a bit down having posted the final chapter of "We're Going to the End of the Line," when I found this gem. It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share it with you. I don't remember when I wrote it, but it came out of me watching "Supernatural" whilst writing my other Sherlock fic, "The Imperfectly Perfect Fairytale."**  
 **It is rather a bit cracky, but the point is to make you laugh, so it doesn't matter. I tagged Supernatural because the "monsters" follow that show's mythology, and there is a brief mention of hunters. Unfortunately, no characters from the CW's show feature in this fic. I also tagged Harry Potter for a mention of spells and other assorted wizarding things, but none of J.K. Rowling's characters appear either.**  
 **I hope you enjoy this silly little fic!**  
 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Supernatural, or Harry Potter, nor do I receive any profit from this work.**

Sherlock Holmes rounded the corner, having just bid farewell to Molly Hooper. The entire time he'd been in the morgue, she'd looked at him as if she was hoping he'd notice something new about her. A new haircut, perhaps?

He hadn't had time to concern himself with the likely minute change in the pathologist. He had a case to solve, and a blood sample to analyze. He'd also had to deal with Molly's superior, Mike Stamford, who seemed truly astonished that Sherlock had not taken an interest in the newest body on the slab, and horrified that Sherlock had bid Molly adieu.

Sherlock was interested. Something about the body had seemed familiar, but he hadn't cared enough to look. As for Molly, something was off about her, but she was standing right behind Mike, pushing the proper instruments toward his hands. Why shouldn't he speak to her?

As Sherlock exited the morgue, he bumped into Detective Inspector Lestrade, whose face was streaming with tears.

"Lestrade? What ever is the matter?"

He looked at Sherlock incredulously. "Weren't you just in the morgue to see Molly's body?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You've lost me."

Greg choked back a sob. "Sherlock, Molly was killed two hours ago. Didn't anyone tell you?"

Sherlock looked at Greg incredulously. "But, I…"

Just then, everything fit into place. The things he'd noticed that hadn't made sense. Why Molly's eyes hadn't gleamed in the lights above the autopsy table. Why her presence made the room ten degrees colder. Why Mike had been so aghast. Why the body on the slab seemed so familiar.

Sherlock realized what had been different about Molly.

Molly Hooper was a ghost.

* * *

Sherlock bided his time, waiting for Lestrade and Mike to finally vacate the morgue. The Detective Inspector's crush on Molly Hooper was only rivaled in infamy by Molly's crush on Sherlock, and Mike saw the late pathologist as a daughter.

After ensuring that no one was present and that he would be able to investigate uninterrupted, Sherlock called, "You can come out now, Molly. It's just you and me."

Molly appeared before Sherlock.

"Molly, I hate to inform you, but…"

The spirit held up a finger to silence Sherlock. "I figured out what I am all on my own, thank you very much."

He bit his lip, and looked down. "Sorry. Entering the supernatural realm can be disorienting for some."

Molly cocked an eyebrow. "What do you know of the supernatural realm?"

Sherlock grinned. "Promise you won't laugh?"

She nodded.

Sherlock stepped back and closed his eyes, holding a finger up, signaling her to wait.

He curled his lips back in a snarl, baring his teeth. A second set of sharp teeth extended from his gums, protruding past his set of human ones.

Molly took a step forward, hesitantly reaching toward his face, as if to make sure he was still real. She was surprised to find that her hand didn't pass right through him, despite her ethereal form.

"And now, Molly Hooper," Sherlock whispered, retracting the predatory weapons, "you see why, for my brother and I, sentiment is a chemical defect."

She nodded. "Sherlock, how…I mean when…"

"Jack the Ripper. Mycroft and I caught him in the midst of slaughtering his last victim. He turned on us, and when we changed, we ripped the Ripper."

Molly was confused. "How did you find him again?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I am the world's only consulting detective. Also, old Jack was a man of habit; he killed the same breed of women in nearly the same place. The police back then made Anderson look like Einstein." Sherlock paused. "And how did you get here? I mean, how did you die?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "The great consulting detective can't figure out that one? My body is in number 12."

Sherlock strode over to the metal door, deftly swinging it open and pulling the gurney out.

"Hmm." He surveyed her bruised and battered body. "Physical assault. Who did this?"

"It was Tom actually. The berk was pissed that I had pawned the ring he gave me off for money. Came to my flat drunk off his arse."

Sherlock scowled. "Damn. I'm sorry, Molly."

"Well, dying isn't exactly pleasant."

"That's not what I meant." Sherlock wrapped his hands around Molly's shoulders. "Immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially when you're a ghost, and almost certainly drawn to haunt the person who killed you."

Molly gaped. "You mean I'll eventually want to follow that wanker around forever? Bloody hell, I'm going to go mad."

"Don't say things like that!"

Molly looked up, shocked by the consulting detective's sudden outburst. "Why not?"

"Because that's a likely possibility. If you don't keep some remnant of your humanity, your morals will become black and white, and you'll attack anyone who even whiffs of resembling Tom. Then, even I can't protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

An edge of fear entered Sherlock's voice. "There are people who know about us. They know how to get rid of us. They hunt us."

Molly hid her horror beneath a layer of sarcasm. "Well, on that light note."

Sherlock nodded. "Sorry. If it helps, I have to find people to eat. Drink. Whatever. Sally Donovan was partially right. A good number of the unsolved murders I've investigated stay unsolved for a reason."

Molly stared. "So, you kill often?"

"No. I only need to feed about once a month. Of course, I never hunt in the full moon; that's John's time of the month. Never quite ends well for him if I'm not there."

"What do you mean, 'his time of the month'?"

Sherlock smiled nervously. "Would you believe me if I told you John was a werewolf?"

Molly rubbed at her temples. "At this point, I'll believe anything."

Sherlock smiled, and took Molly's hand. "Come on. Let's go."

As they were walking through the hospital, Molly mused, "I feel like I'm in the stupid, American vampire story. Please tell me you don't sparkle."

Sherlock smiled so that his eyes crinkled. "What do you take me for? A fairy princess?"

Molly laughed out loud.

* * *

"John," Sherlock yelled.

"What have I told you about yelling in the house," the veteran snarled.

Molly sniggered. "Are we nearing your time of the month?"

Sherlock giggled with her. "I believe we are."

John scowled. "It's not funny. When most of the boys were growing chest hair and their voices were dropping, I got my visit from Mother Nature."

Molly looked at him sympathetically. "Well, at least the girls could've empathized. And hey, we women have nothing to complain about. Your time of the month seems like a real beast."

John scowled. "Don't make jokes, Molly."

Sherlock smirked. "I thought it was funny."

John glared.

To clear the air, Molly asked, "John, can you tell me about your…condition. What's true, and what's not true."

The soldier nodded. "Silver bullets only work whilst I'm in the wolf. The light of the full moon is what usually causes the change, but if I'm provoked enough I'll go wolf regardless of the moon phase."

"Do you…eat people?"

John laughed. "My bite is infectious, if that's what you mean, but I don't actively seek out people to eat. However, if a human were to be near me, they might lose an arm, as I don't know myself when I've phased. So, you, for instance, couldn't be near me."

"You can hurt ghosts?"

John's brow furrowed. "Why do you ask?"

Sherlock sighed. "You'll have to forgive him. He didn't know what happened to you, and has never seen one of your kind."

John was still confused. "Did I miss something?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Be right back."

She turned and walked through the door of 221B. Not through the doorframe. She walked through the door.

John's jaw hit the floor. "When did this happen?"

"Three hours ago," Sherlock answered. "That berk to whom Molly was engaged."

"Tom," John shouted furiously, his body tensing. "I'll kill him myself. I'll do it." The words came out as a bark.

"I think Greg will take care of that," Sherlock muttered with a smirk, typing away at his phone.

John relaxed and snickered. "I feel a Harry Potter marathon coming."

Molly groaned. "Nope. There's no way Greg's a wizard. I refuse to believe it. Wizards can see ghosts."

"Wizards can see ghosts that want to be seen."

Molly narrowed her eyes. "So you're saying that Greg didn't see me because I didn't want him to see me?"

"Yep. You assumed he was unknowing of all things mystical, and hid yourself," John piped up.

Molly dragged a hand through her hair. "Even if Greg is really a wizard, that doesn't mean anything from Harry Potter is real. It's all cleverly written fiction."

John and Sherlock shared a knowing glance.

"What?"

Molly was surprised to hear a male voice accompany her own. Grabbing a fire poker, she swung it over her shoulder like a bat.

"What was so urgent Sherlock," Greg asked impatiently, brushing imaginary dust from his arms.

The consulting detective gestured to the ghost. "Show yourself, Molly."

She turned to face the silver-haired man, and focused on making her presence known.

Lestrade's eyes grew wide as the deceased pathologist materialized. "Molly? You're a ghost?"

She spread her arms wide. "Hit me with something and prove it."

"Expelliarmus!"

Instead of removing the fire poker from Molly's translucent hand, the spell passed through her and sent Sherlock's phone flying from his hand.

"You really are a wizard!"

Sherlock smiled wickedly. "What? You think J.K. Rowling made all that stuff up herself?"

 **A/N:Thanks so much for reading! Did it make you laugh? It probably made you groan like a bad dad joke, and it's probably deserving of such treatment. If you liked the story, leave a review or a PM saying so. If you hated it, leave a review or PM as well; I stand to grow from constructive criticism.**


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